


You Always Come to the Party to Pluck the Feathers of All the Birds

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Series: Vodka Infused with a Dash of Bitters [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Bada Bing etc, Ciao Ciao is a Jersey Italian, Everyone thinks Yuuri is hot, Food Porn, Friends to Lovers, James Beard Foundation Jokes, Like Haute Cuisine You Animals, M/M, NOT FOOD FUCKING, New York City, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Robbing Yuuri of his Dignity 20Gayteen, This isn't an Everyone's From the US Thing Though, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri never set out to bartend for a living, but he's good at it, the cash is great, and he loves it, when all is said and done.Somehow his idol waltzes in for a drink during a meeting, and his entire world shifts into something more chaotic.





	You Always Come to the Party to Pluck the Feathers of All the Birds

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> [Listen to the Soundtrack.](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168581471/playlist/091tI3OPknWVtnBQJUQ06g?si=TAc4apuzRcOJ9Wq-lt24tQ)  
> 

This was only supposed to be a temporary gig while he paid his way through junior and senior year; but majoring in dance in New York City while bartending is like the whole shtick in LA about serving crispy duck at Mr. Chow as a _yet-to-be-discovered Mactress_.

Anyways.

It’s been four years, countless auditions, a few bit parts, and an average of $700 minimum cold hard cash when he works on a Wednesday night. This is after splitting the tip pool three ways between himself and the other two behind the bar with him.

Yes, on a Wednesday. Fridays and Saturdays are unreal, though Celestino was a bit sour when Yakov made him install the corner breathalyzer for the damn Bridge and Tunnels.

Yuuri isn’t even American, let alone a Native New Yorker™, and he hates those shrill dicks.

It’s the second Tuesday in May, so here he is along with his fellow mixologists for the monthly bar staff meeting. He’s in house just for the meeting since it’s his usual day off (Tuesdays and Wednesdays are his “weekend”), so he’s in navy and white saddle shoes instead of slip proof oxfords, blue jeans, and an oversized tan sweater.

The time is that dead lull between lunch rush and pre-theater, so Phichit’s by himself taking care of a couple friendly regulars in the all-black uniform. The dress code’s loose as long as it’s monochromatic, so he’s got on a short-sleeved deep-cut v-neck and a pair of black jeans showing off his goods. “Yuuri!” he says as Yuuri swings by the service bar POS to ring in his free shift meal since meetings count.

“Hey,” Yuuri replies as he doesn’t look while he pulls up what he wants: the truffled grilled cheese that’s supposed to be only on the late-night menu, but he knows that Mila’s working that part of the line right now and she’ll do him a solid.

A hand cups Yuuri’s ass, and the instinct to break the person’s jaw is staved off by the whiff of Le Labo’s Rose 31. “Hi Chris.”

“Good afternoon,” Chris greets with a sensual smile. He lowers his round Ray Bans and winks. Chris works the bar for dinners on Tuesdays, since Sara slings the drinks with Phichit for their early regulars. He’s in his work clothes, bottle opener sticking out of his back pocket, and Yuuri sighs.

Sara comes from the walk-in with pour bottles of the chai-infused Martini Rosso for the Mata Hari themed drink, along with a few bottles of their specialty bitters. “Hi Yuuri!” she calls with a big grin. Her top is low, her eye make up is smokey, and her bubbly persona helps them all make rent when the last cocktail napkin is swept up and the last tips are counted.

Thanks to Celestino’s shady connections (they don’t ask), the bar has its own private Prosecco. They keep bottles of it, probably about a case worth’s, on the high shelves behind their designated workspace. About ten seconds into Yuuri’s first bite of his grilled cheese, while Chris bites into a bone marrow popper, Sara and Phichit sidle up to them at the bar top. “Hi,” they chime together in harmony.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow over his glasses with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. Chris purses his lips. Phichit looks to the highest shelf on the wall with the sparkling wine. Sara grins like she’s in a Crest commercial.

Phichit is under five and a half feet, and Sara is even shorter. Chris and Celestino are the tallest employees from the entire staff. Yuuri is in the low end of above median height for this super small sample set that no stats prof would ever accept. Before Chris can move, Yuuri sighs, gets off his stool, and while breaking all of Yakov’s safety regs gets on the ladder behind the bar for the bottles that his friends just barely can’t reach. He feels everyone’s eyes on him as he manages three - more than that and he feels unsafe.

“Ah, I so enjoy this prime vantage point of our main weekend draw,” Chris says.

Yuuri climbs down two steps of the ladder with a bewildered look. The three of them (and Celestino _where did he come from_ ) all have their eyes fixated on his ass.

Yuuri’s face drips pure, uncut disdain.

“I’d probably tip a hundred percent for that alone,” Sara admits with her head tilted to one side. She has a Bic pen in-between her lips, playing with it like Cher Horowitz did her yellow gum.

“At least seventy-five,” Phichit admits.

Celestino hums his agreement as Chris grabs five twenties from his change stash, making them rain in the vicinity of Yuuri’s chest.

“I’m keeping them, you know,” Yuuri deadpans as he pushes the bottles towards the back of their fridge while moving the already cold ones up front for the next rush.

Chris hastily picks up the bills from where they landed.

Celestino coughs. “If we keep this up, Yakov will make us watch those sensitivity videos again.”

All of them groan. Those videos suck. Unrealistic, idiotic, too black and white necessary crap so Yakov can cover his ass if something actually goes sour in his business. It’s a shitty meeting every July that they close for lunch to get through. It’s awful. It’s like something Ollie North would have advocated.

Yuuri goes back to his sandwich. It’s almost Mother’s Day, so he makes a note to send flowers to his back in Hasetsu. Maybe a bouquet accompanied by a stuffed dog toy.

Phichit sits next to him with a cup of their proprietary herbal tea blend, Sara leans against the bar, and Celestino almost begins when an actual customer sits at the end of the actual bar at actual four in the afternoon. It sets alarm bells off with all four of them some dude’s coming to a craft cocktail bar at _three in the goddamn afternoon_. He’s—

Oh.

Yuuri almost swallows his tongue.

Oh _fuck_.

He’s the incredibly attractive, incredibly charming, five-time-in-a-row-why-does-anyone-else-even-show-up James Beard Foundation Award winner for Outstanding Wine, Spirits, or Beer Professional Victor Nikiforov. Formerly Yakov’s own protégé, Yuuri began following him in college to perfect his own drink recipes. If he’s used one of his magazine spreads as fodder for sexual fantasies, well…that info is under _lock and key_.

Yuuri tries to hide into cheese, bread, and truffle mayo. Phichit slips down to the end to take Nikiforov’s order, because let it be known if there's money to be made Phichit is there like some kind of domino-masked superhero and a burning building.

Yuuri knows Celestino recognizes Nikiforov. Celestino won the Restaurateur award three years back. There are photographs online of them mingling and shaking hands. Plus, Nikiforov began under Yakov and Lilia at their first place on their own. He's probably here to see his old friends, nothing more or less.

Phichit makes Nikiforov the Provençal: gin infused with lavender, vermouth the same but with Herbes de Provence, and finished off with Cointreau. Nikiforov takes a sip, lights up, says some combo of vowels Yuuri can’t ever hope to replicate, and chats excitedly with Phichit about the drink. Yuuri stares down the brightness in his eyes like a creep until Nikiforov notices, meets his eyes, and they lock in on each other like heat-seeking missiles.

Yuuri thinks he should lock himself in the walk-in so he can freeze to death.

He refuses to raise his head until the meeting ends. It’s before Nikiforov pays his tab, so Yuuri runs, forgetting even to clock out which Celestino hates more than people who stiff the Soul of House. After ending up at his apartment, he covers his shame to the beats of “1-800-273-8255” using every pillow on his bed _and_ the winter duvet. Yuuri orders in a bunch of shitty pizza from Grubhub and goes to bed with HBO NOW on in the background. He’s a dead-eyed lump the next day, and when it’s time for work on Thursday, he pulls it together, gets ready, and almost cuts off his ring finger making cocktail garnishes when he hears a boisterous Russian-accented, “Hello!”

After recovering (maybe only kind of), Yuuri stares frozen at Nikiforov in all black like everyone else employed here.

“Yuuri, right?” Nikiforov continues with a smile and a wink. “Starting today, I’m your new bar manager!”

Yuuri thinks the walk in would be too clean a death. Jumping on the third rail of the Uptown Express makes a lot more sense and would be more dignified.

**Author's Note:**

> Me, two months ago: Cool I'm waiting tables again.  
> Me, after one floor shift: _I must AU this._
> 
> Anyways, the bar is based off Employees Only in the West Village. It was that or Blind Tiger but I can't buy half this cast as craft beer assholes. (Not people who like craft beer, _craft beer assholes_. You know the difference, I'm sure.) Beta assist by thehobbem! 
> 
> Title from The Weeknd's "The Party and the After Party."
> 
> Also a "mactress" is a model-slash-actress.
> 
> Dedicated to all of us who've done our time giving guests booths instead of tables, making seven mojitos for a party during peak rush on a Friday, having five different customized pastas on the same ticket, having to 86 the special an hour into the night, and trying to save our bros tips because a person got a well-done burger instead of a med-well.
> 
> For the record I don't think the Beard Foundation would let anyone be nominated that much let alone sweep every year like Victor but call backs are call backs, don't @ me.
> 
> Twitter: sink_or_swim  
> Tumblr: sinkingorswimming
> 
> If you like it, let me know via comments or kudos!!!


End file.
